


The willow bench

by FreyaLor



Category: French History RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22401475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: A glimpse of the necessary fraud Louis has to set up to covert his secrets from the Court, and its innocent, oblivious victim.____________________A short story written in one hour no more, just to prove myself I could do something SHORT. For once.
Relationships: Louis XIII of France/Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	The willow bench

  
  


‘You chose wisely’ Toiras told me once about her. ‘That one is for sure never going to make any _unwanted move forward_ ’.

And I just smiled, because dear Jean was right.

Louise de la Fayette is saintly to the last bone of her pearly, slender body. She wears light blue taffeta and thin beige gauze, daisies in her hair, roses in her hands. She is a soft chamber music concert after an afternoon reading, she is a hushed voice in the back of an old church, she is a peaceful walk in springtime gardens.

She's the sweet angel of the Court, the Courtier's last favourite pet.

To me, however, she's as boring as a sand dune, though I still seek her company.

Because with her shy whispers barely released between various, ardent prayers, with her venerating looks hardly allowed by her limitless virtue, with her conversation dulled by purity to the mere echo of a sermon, she helps me every day in a way, I hope, she’ll never understand.

In addition to as much small talk as I can bear to utter without breaking furniture the rest of the time, every Sunday I sit with her on this bench under the willow tree for one hour and a half exactly, between her morning routine and her eleven o’clock devotions. I sit there, I salute her, and I do what I have to.

I wear the pompous, cumbersome clothes a King is supposed to wear to be a man of this world, I respect every single rule of the Protocol of charm this senseless Court has invented, smiling just right, talking just fine, maintaining my back straight, keeping my head high, turning towards her to show interest but not entirely to show modesty, and I listen to her babbling.

-“How has been your day, so far, Madame?” I ask in the voice of a charming gentleman who is everyone but me, and since this question is probably the most exciting event in all of her lifeless, respectable days, she starts reciting her well-rehearsed speech right away.

I focus on it enough for my replies to make sense, I react to it with enough warmth for her to feel encouraged, but the point is, as it always will be, that this bench in the gardens can been seen by pretty much everyone in the Louvre at this time of the day, and this is nothing else than my design.

She compliments my kindness, comparing me to an obscure Saint from Limousin folklore she learned about in the Queen’s salon. I nod my gratitude, offering her restrained praise about her choice of silk for her gloves.

-“I appreciate people at my Court favouriting French manufactures over Italian ones” I state gently, and she blushes with a crystalline giggle.

She goes on, radiant with glee, of course. Something about God, _oh, such surprise_. She joins her hands as she speaks, almost tearing up at the Lord’s generosity to let her be noticed by the Very Christian King. She quotes the Bible, three times at least, her thankful eyes reaching for the skies, and watching her I realize she is exactly what I was determined to become, long before, in early years.

She is exactly the blameless light I was aiming for, before filth and mortal sin forced themselves upon me as a truth I could never deny. Her light blue and beige, her roses and daisies, her pearls, her prayers, are everything I wanted to achieve, before the fire, before the storm, _before the red._

As she exults in a tribute to Saint Louis, three dozen Courtiers horribly fake to be passing in front of us by chance, bowing low, watching closely, and walk away to spread the news, well, _be my guests, lowlives._

Be my guests.

  
  


Dear Jean was right, Louise is my scheme, my intrigue, my plan.The cruel deceit I forged to cover my secrets. She falls victim, innocent lamb, to the necessities of propaganda, the reign of appearances, and the depth of my hypocrisy.With every conversation we have on that bench I am pushing further the need for Courtiers to inquire where exactly I get the love my wife continues to deny me, and this is nothing else than my design.

She makes a timid joke about the bread in Arras being so inedible they use it to repair shoes, and she laughs, inoffensive, juvenile, aerial. I smile, flattering her humour, _how amusing you must be among the Queen’s ladies, Madame,_ and she blushes deeper still.

From the windows of the Palace, might it be first or second floor, I am sure thirty more faces are watching my slightest move, so I display what they expect.That white silk lace that bothers every movement, those absurd boots that wouldn’t survive a rainy day, this doublet that is worth a tall warship and this walking cane of finest gold. I offer as spectacle the only elegant pose I can maintain, and that well-mannered stare that will never venture higher than her knees.

She blurts out more prayers, I truly don’t know why, laced with poetry I will never get a grip on, and it doesn’t matter anymore, because in one minute precisely, our hour and a half will be over. I know it by that spot appearing along the Southern rosebushes, coming from the Tuileries with a long and steady gait. I know it by that silhouette, unmistakable, merciless, coming to strike my puppet show straight to oblivion.

I know, as I’ll always do, because of that same shade of carmine red.

He’s there, walking towards us, and I have stopped listening to Louise. He’s here to remind me of all the things these lies are supposed to hide, and the beaming force of them all makes my heart jump and throb. He’s there, getting closer enough for me to notice the darker cloak on his shoulders, the documents in his hands, the stern look on his smooth marble face.

He’s there, coming to a halt exactly ten meters away from us, and I could bet half of my lands that this very second is eleven o’clock.

-“I deeply regret I must leave Your Majesty for my duties to God once more” Louise murmurs, genuinely pained, while my wicked heart only rejoices.

-“This is the one duty I cannot resent you for, Madame.” I soothe and upon the softest sigh she stands to curtsey, taking her leave.

My eyes follow her as she runs right towards him, giving a low bow to his shadow, and as he has the nerve, wondrous monster, to draw a blessing cross on her forehead. She disappears, taffeta and gauze, daisies and roses, and he comes to me striding, like nigh-time always darkens even the prettiest gardens.

He circles around the bench in a hiss of red robes until he stands facing me, and though his bow is just as regular, as reasonable as hers, the fames in my guts as I watch him lower himself are burning the whole theatre of fraud I had set up for Louise. Curtains crumble, decors collapse, everything falls as he calls me, a beckoning of truth I will never deny.

‘The Council will start when Your Majesty will be ready”, he’ll surely say, or something of the sort, and without a word I’ll follow him to my study.

I will devour the sight of his waist, the lines of his lower back, and the length of his legs all the time he'll take to precede me on the stairs, and he knows it perfectly. Once in the empty study, the moment his hands will be free of documents I will grab them tight, and he will oppose no resistance. I will pull him then, between the shelf and the East wall, where I will kiss his mouth like a wild wolf, and he will moan in dark promises.

In the sharp glint of his eyes I will find my peace, In the slow burn of his touch I will find my place.

In the sound of his soft voice I will find the core of who I am, however flawed, however damned, and in his bright, unholy love I will find the man I was meant, if not resolved, to ever turn into.

  
  



End file.
